


A Difference Of Culture

by princessofmind



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before meeting Eridan online, you hadn’t realized how different the traditions of land trolls and sea trolls were.  Of course, in hindsight, it makes sense considering there’s almost no mixing between the two, since land trolls generally stay away from the shore and the sea trolls rarely leave the ocean, but none of your schoolfeeding ever mentioned it, so you’d been surprised when you mentioned needing to get your holiday tree and he’d looked at you like you’d grown a second head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Difference Of Culture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [squidmemesinc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/gifts).



“Okay, I still don’t understand the point’a all this.”

You shimmy out from under the tree, having to do a strange, half wiggle half roll that ends up with you on your back looking up at the troll on your couch. Even from the strange vantage point, Eridan looks confused, eyebrows furrowed and forehead creased as he glowers at you from over the rim of his mug of cocoa. Despite him only being in your physical presence for about a week now, you’ve learned quickly that he suffers from the affliction of constant lemonface unless he’s smiling, so the apparent displeasure there doesn’t actually mean anything.

“ _I_ still can’t believe you guys don’t do anything for the solstice out there,” you say as you roll back over and stand, walking over to where he’s sitting, and he holds his mug out to you obligingly. A sip later, and you’re back to the tree, fluffing the branches absentmindedly and breathing in the sharp scent of pine.

“We don’t exactly got trees to decorate with out in the ocean even if we did, Kar,” he answers, sounding fondly amused. “Sides, it’s too cold in the winter for us to do much of anythin’ outside our hives or out of the ocean. We celebrate the summer solstice same’s you do, though.”

Before meeting Eridan online, you hadn’t realized how different the traditions of land trolls and sea trolls were. Of course, in hindsight, it makes sense considering there’s almost no mixing between the two, since land trolls generally stay away from the shore and the sea trolls rarely leave the ocean, but none of your schoolfeeding ever mentioned it, so you’d been surprised when you mentioned needing to get your holiday tree and he’d looked at you like you’d grown a second head.

Cultural sensitivity was _hard_.

But then again, you hadn’t exactly planned on having a sea dwelling matesprit that you’d have to explain the finer nuances of land dwelling life to. It might also be your own fault for bringing him to visit for the first time during the winter holiday season.

“Okay, so.” You prop a hand on your hips, gesturing vaguely at the tree with the other. “The story goes like this.”

“That’s a piss poor way to start a story,” Eridan says, violet eyes practically gleaming behind his glasses. “Start it proper.”

You squint and scowl. “Once upon a time, there was a small community of trolls living up in the mountains. They were miners who built their town at the entrance of a cave where they mined precious gems, and enclosed it with a large wall to protect the trolls and their most valuable resource. Even though they were small, everyone in the community, young and old, was a fierce and well-trained fighter, because the gem mine meant that lots of less virtuous trolls were constantly trying to invade and take over their little town. They defended it for years and years without incident, until one winter hit especially hard and early, so none of the trading caravans that provided them with their stocks for the snowy season could make it up the mountain.

They were having to ration all their food and supplies, and rumor spread that they were weak and now was the perfect time to attack and seize the mine. And while ready to defend their town, the citizens couldn’t keep fighting like they did because of how much faster it would eat through their supplies, what with treating the wounded and needing more food for energy and what-have-you.

The leader of their town, a strong-willed teal blood, confided in her moirail one night that she had no idea what to do to keep their town safe. “Word travels fast,” she said. “It’s only a matter of time before every neighboring city has sent forces to try and eliminate us to get to the mines, and we’ll starve if we try to fight them all.”

Her moirail was quiet for a while before answering her. “When the first group of intruders come, pile the bodies by the gate outside the wall, and I will handle things from there. Trust me, and I will take care of things.”

While the leader was skeptical, she knew that her moirail was resourceful and capable, so after their victory over the first of their attackers, she did as she was instructed. Her moirail gathered some of the villagers outside the wall, and instructed them to cut the heads off all the bodies and give them to her. Just outside the gate, right up against the wall, was a large pine tree, and the moirail scaled the tree and hung each head from the bows. In the freezing weather, they were slow to rot, and when the warm blood from the corpses dripped from the heads and onto the trees, they froze, making the branches glisten all different colors in the sunlight.

With each group that came, she repeated the process, until the tree was entirely covered with the marks of their victory, and all the bands of would-be attackers that came were either too terrified of the might of this small town or respected their showmanship and left them be. So the village survived the winter, and implemented the strategy every winter afterwards to help keep safe. The end.”

Eridan is looking at the unadorned tree thoughtfully as you finish the story, a small smile playing across his face. You think your voice is too rough and grating to be pleasant, but he told you one night as he curled against you in the ‘coon that he loved listening to you talk. Carefully unwinding the blankets from around himself, he pads over to the boxes your lusus helped remove from the attic a few days ago, removing the lid and peering inside.

“These represent the blood,” you explain, pulling out the carefully coiled strand of colored lights, walking over and plugging it in so he can see all the shades of the spectrum properly illuminated.

“An’ I’m guessing these are for the heads?” he asks, reaching into the box himself and pulling out a flimsy plastic box with silver balls in it, some of them shiny and some of them frosted and still others covered in glitter. “That was a good story, though. Is it true?”

“I don’t know,” you answer, watching as he carefully removes one of the glass ornaments, soft grey fingers turning it over as his rings click against the surface. It’s getting glitter all over his sweater (your sweater, actually), but he’s such an aesthetically focused troll who loves pretty baubles, and the soft happiness on his face makes your heart flutter uncomfortably in your chest. “I think it might be, but it’s such an old story, I don’t think anyone is sure either way.”

He hums softly in acknowledgement, carefully putting the ornament back in the box before turning his attention towards helping you wind the colorful lights around the tree. You’re very particular about getting it just so, and while you were expecting him to get tired of it quickly, he’s patient and helps hunt out the dead bulbs and fluff the branches so the lights are situated just perfectly. Eridan is clearly more excited about the ornaments, turning them over in his hands before carefully hanging them on the tree. Most of them are plain, like the silver balls; there are some snowflakes, some that are brightly colored bells that jingle when you slip the hook over the branches. But some of them are more sentimental, like the gingerbread one you baked for the first solstice you were old enough to decorate the house for, or the one that bears a likeness to your lusus.

There’s a new one, this year, that you present to Eridan, shoulders hunched defensively and trying not to look as self-conscious as you feel. He opens the box, cutting through the bubble wrap inside with his claws to get to the ornament inside. It’s in the shape of a heart, cut from shining silver, with a ruby inlaid on one side of the shape and an amethyst in the other and the date inscribed on the back. There’s a slightly puzzled look on his face, before it softens into a smile that takes your breath away, and you don’t protest when he pulls you close, still holding the gift carefully in his hand.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, tilting your head up to kiss you, still palpably cool but such a delicious contrast against your skin. You wrap your arms around his waist in return, staying pressed close even when he reaches over and carefully hangs the heart right at the front of the tree, in the perfect spot for you to see from the couch.

He’s still looking at it when you curl up under the blankets again, him sprawled in your lap and your fingers absentmindedly tracing the tines of his fins, and you can practically feel his focus shift to the sprig of green you tied over the entryway to the living room.

“What’s that fuckin’ plant you got hanging up there?” he asks, and you can hear the furrow of his brow in his tone of voice.

You grin, leaning down to kiss right behind his fin, which makes him shudder. “Why don’t you stand up so I can show you?”

You would almost say that he likes the mistletoe more than the ornament.

Almost.


End file.
